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What We Have Left: A Letter

December 2, 2013

Dear Holly,

You never liked to tell your middle name. Love, like a dirty word, like something hippies say, casual and meaningless. I never liked to tell mine either: Garnet, a family name, red-stone ridiculous. We both wanted something normal, like Lynn, Michelle, or Jennifer.

Normal is what we never had. We met because our younger brothers both have autism, and our wise mothers thought it would be good for us to know each other. I remember how hard it was to make eye contact with you that first afternoon. Once I did, though, we were inseparable.

You were the first person who understood what it was like to have a sibling with special needs. It was such a relief to not have to try to pass things off as ‘normal’ around you. I could invite you to my house, knowing that my brother Willie would be playing “Under the Sea” on repeat, singing along while typing out the long list of The Little Mermaid film credits from memory. And you’d smile without batting an eyelash, because you had Johnny, and you knew how it was.

***

We had interlocking yin-and-yang necklaces, a self-published newspaper, and a standing phone date. “Seven o’clock, on the dot. If you don’t call me, I’ll call you!” That was our mantra. I wonder which one of us stopped calling first. I think it was you, around the time you started experimenting with drugs. But I think I took off my necklace first, around the time I started trying harder to ‘fit in.’

It’s strange, the way memory works. Here I am, forgetting the how and why of the distance that grew between us, but remembering the tiniest details of our friendship.

For example, I remember these Chinese meditation balls that rested in a red velvet case in the small study where we worked on our newspaper. They were weighty, with yin and yang detailing, and I can still feel their exact heaviness in my hands. We used to each hold one as we worked on our newspaper, The Whippany News. You did the cartoons and layout, and I did the copy.

You had so many gifts and talents; iconoclasm, fierce stubbornness, and artistic skill. These things didn’t translate well to most classrooms. And you were cautious about sharing your abilities; people had to earn your trust first. You used to pass me sketches and comics in class; you’d draw when we were supposed to be conjugating French verbs. Those little scraps of paper made dull hours come alive.

Your friendship showed me that, when we judge people based on what they wear and how well they conform to one set of social norms, we’re the ones that miss out. We miss out on compassion. We miss out on true friendships. And we miss out on ourselves, on the people we would become.

Even when I was a crazily self-conscious teenager, desperate to ‘fit in,’ there was a part of me that never got sucked into the popularity trap. That part of me walked door to door with you, selling our paper for 25 cents (50 cents for special editions).

How did we do it, when we were both as shy and introverted as they come?

We could manage because we always went together.

***

The last time I saw you living was just before high school graduation. It was awkward and unremarkable, except that I felt old love shine beneath the surface of whatever casual words we spoke. It was the kind of conversation wherein we had to ignore the dialogue to understand what was being said.

In the end you walked away from me, up a ramp to rehab or elsewhere. And I stood staring after, knowing and not knowing, speechless for your sake.

***

This summer, it will be seven years since the funeral, seven years since we lost you to a heroin overdose. Then as now, it seems both unbearable and unreal.

On that dark day, I kept expecting to see you sneak in late, because you couldn’t be gone. I kept looking for you, for that timid wave / head-duck combo I knew so well.

That move carried over, you know, when you changed from girl to Goth-rock rebel. It was one of those little things that clued me in to the fact that, platform boots and heavy makeup and all, there was still a shy Holly with freckles underneath. You dressed to stand out andI dressed to fit in, but both of us were putting on a show for other people. I see that now. And I don’t want to do that anymore.

So I’m thinking about doing something crazy and attending this Carry On, Warrior book signing in Nashville. You know how I am, practical and frugal and I’d-rather-just-stay-home-with-a-book. It’s a four-hour round trip, so I keep thinking I can’t justify it, even though I really want to be there.

But then, traveling isn’t the issue, not when I close my eyes and listen in to what’s really going on. The fact is, I’m scared to go alone. I’m scared of getting lost, of crying my eyes out in a room of unfamiliar faces. (Both are very real possibilities.)

But now, writing this, I realize: I won’t be going by myself. You’ll be there in spirit.

I know this because, well, you would like Glennon. You’d like that she tells it like it is, that she understands about addiction. (And the fact that she’s been known to wear a red lace tutu is a definite plus.) But most of all, I know you’ll be at that signing because of this post. Because of these words, the ones that seemed to come through in your voice.

Please, please forgive me for being the lightning rod that I was. Celebrate my life and my freedom when you can. And YOU. Celebrate YOUR freedom now. You are free. Live your life. Lay mine down. It’s too heavy. You are still my Lobster, forever, and so you need to keep living.

***

What helps me to live into these words is the hope that I’ll see you again. You weren’t sure what to think about the whole ‘Jesus thing’ when last we spoke, but you’d always listen when I’d talk about Him … which is immensely to your credit, because I thought I knew a lot, and really, I knew so little.

You once said that you weren’t a ‘good’ person like me, so God probably wouldn’t be too interested in opening Her doors to you. That day, my ‘theology’ said one thing, and my heart said another. My ‘theology’ told me that you had some hoops to jump through and exact phrases to say before God would welcome you. But my heart said: honey, grace means you’re in. Grace means everybody’s in.

And I would bet my last dollar that you and Jesus are pretty tight now. I would bet everything I have that you are tearing up heaven together. A year after your funeral, I came upon Frederick Buechner’s words, “The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t be complete without you.” And I thought: Yes. That’s it exactly.

***

Holly, I hope it’s okay that I just told all these Monkees about you, about our friendship and your middle name. The shy girl I remember would have been hiding in the corner, tossing her wavy hair and saying, I can’t believe you! Caroline! Did you really have to tell them?!?!

To which I can only reply: Yes, my friend, I did have to. I had to tell the truth. Because your middle name … it’s who you are.

It’s what we have left.

And it’s how I remember you.

*******

A brief bio: Caroline McGraw is a would-be childhood paleontologist turned writer, digging for treasure in people and uncovering sacred stories in ordinary days. She writes about choosing love, losing fear, and finding home at A Wish Come Clear.

Dear G (and everyone else): I’m hopeful that you might be able to share some helpful perspective. My brother-in-law (my husband’s brother) is a fully-practicing (but unacknowledged) alcoholic. I had some great conversations with his wife over Thanksgiving, and she is working really hard to change her own enabling patterns – she’s going back into therapy, she’s exercising and changing her diet, and striving to provider their daughter (3 years old) with a healthy adult role model. And she’s nearly at the end of her rope with her husband. Honestly, my only investment in the situation at the moment is to support her, but I know in her heart what she would love most is for her husband to wake up and address his own sh*t and learn to live in his own skin (and then be the true partner she needs him to be.) No one in my husband’s family talks about my brother-in-law’s drinking or anger issues or the fact that he’s been fired from three jobs in four years because of said anger issues. My father-in-law called after Thanksgiving, and said that since my sister-in-law seemed upset about hosting Thanksgiving for the entire extended family, he’s going to have the extended family Christmas celebration at his house. I was within a breath of just saying: “she’s not upset because the family was there, she’s upset because [BIL] is an alcoholic.” But I didn’t. I wish I had. I’ve always been the outsider in my husband’s family – just a very different background, they’ve always been kind, but I know they don’t really get why we’re together – but that means I have little to lose by engaging in some radical truth telling.

What I’m hoping for some guidance about is how to move forward. Do I focus on supporting my sister-in-law? Do I try to talk to my husband’s parents, and try to help them shed some enabling patterns? Do I attempt to have a conversation with my brother-in-law? I have an anxiety disorder, and have spent 41 years figuring out how to live in my own skin, so I do feel like I might have some relevant experience to share with him. My husband’s family are NOT talkers – they chat about sports and the weather – but they rarely TALK about anything.

I deeply understand the feelings that my BIL is trying to avoid – but I was never addicted to anything, and there’s no addiction history in my family, so this part of it is all new to me. But I do feel called in some way to be a resource.

Jennie, that IS a tough one. I appreciate your sharing, and my heart goes out to you and your family.

It sounds like your support is valuable for your sister-in-law — being present to her is definitely an act of love and service. I’d imagine that the positive changes she’s making will have a ripple effect in her family and marriage. When one person changes and starts making healthier choices, those changes enter into family relationships too. (We’ve seen that so often here at Momastery!) So your support of her and the changes in her life is a way of facilitating change in your extended family.

Part of the struggle I heard in your words is the pain of your brother-in-law’s addiction, and another part of it involves the culture of silence and taboo topics in the family.

R.e. the addiction: it’s so hard to acknowledge that a loved one is out of control, and that we are largely powerless to change their behavior. And yet that admission itself has power — it’s the first of the 12 steps, actually. Perhaps you have already been modeling recovery for your family, in your own way — G has said that we’re all recovering from something. And a big part of that recovery is telling your truth with bravery and kindness.

The culture of silence you describe is so familiar (!) I empathize with how hard it can be to speak up, especially in feeling somewhat on the outside of things. Something that has helped me is learning about Nonviolent Communication (NVC). It’s a pretty simple practice — stating one’s feelings and needs — but if you’re anything like me (i.e., terrified of conflict or confrontation), it can be a game-changer.

What a beautiful tribute, Caroline. So many young people have lost their lives because of their drug or alcohol use, and it is so sad! It is especially hard when it is someone who is close to you. I love how you describe the change in your friend, but “there was still a shy Holly with freckles underneath.”

Addiction takes away who you really are, because you lose your control and your ability to decide. I know you will always wonder what might have been, but what a loving gift you have given to share your story and be one more voice in spreading the word about the dangers of substance abuse. Thank you.

Cathy, thank you so much — I greatly appreciate the work you do with families and individuals who have been impacted by substance abuse. It means a great deal to me and so many others who have lost friends and family.

Friends, Cathy writes about finding peace after addiction; the link to her site can be found in her comment above. xo

For a million reasons, this was one beautiful post. It really touched my fragile heart. Life can sure be a challenge some days. I hope both you and your friend are at peace, each a bit richer for knowing the other. You enriched my life today with a little glimpse of the both of you. Godspeed.

Wow. What a beautiful letter. I have a few friends like that, too. I also think it’s lovely that women can be so supportive of each other here. If we could just be sure to do this in “real” life also, what a better culture we’d have. I aim to try!

What an honor it is to have someone share a friend. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about different elements of friendship and it sounds like you had many, including the honor of still seeing the true girl under it all. We should all be so lucky to have someone see us so clearly and love us the same.

Such beautiful memories. Thank you for sharing them with us. It’s obvious she was very special to you. I’m looking forward to reading more of your work via your blog and your books. So glad that you wrote to G so she could share you with us. xoxox

Jenn, you are very welcome! Thank you for that affirmation — it was definitely a leap of faith to write (and then share) the letter. Fortunately, I’d been reading Momastery enough to know that sharing a story here would mean connecting with fellow Monkees like you, and that helped tremendously. Thank you for reading! xo

<3 thanks for saying what truly needed to be said
"Please, please forgive me for being the lightning rod that I was. Celebrate my life and my freedom when you can. And YOU. Celebrate YOUR freedom now. You are free. Live your life. Lay mine down. It’s too heavy. You are still my Lobster, forever, and so you need to keep living"

I know G’s blog often leaves readers teary-eyed, but it’s been a while since I boo-hooed in front of my monitor. I’m very weepy and snotty right now, thankyouverymuch. Your story is uplifting and gut-wrenching. Your writing is beautiful. Thanks for being ballsy enough to share it with us.

Adrianne, thank you — would that I could sit with you and pass the Kleenex! I definitely used up my share in writing this letter. It means more than I can say to know that it resonates with you…to know that it was worthwhile to fight past the fear of showing up and sharing this. xo

Hi Caroline, my heart cries tears
Of love for both your loss and gain in this dear friendship. I just watched Beaches the other day and could not stop crying at 3 in the morning! I picked up my cell and blurted out all those
Deepest feelings of sincere loyalty and mesmerizing affinties for all that I and my best friend (also whom went through a few very dark tunnels) and how unconditional my love for is.
Every word you wrote has lingered with me.
We ladies are so very honored to have each other aren’t we? Keep pouring your heart lights out Caroline. xXx

Caroline, thank you for sharing your heartwarming and heartbreaking tribute letter to your late friend. The circumstances around her death are very sad, and my heart mourns with yours this day, but I am so glad that you were in each other’s lives for the period that you were together as friends. We learn so much from our friends and you are always able to articulate so beautifully what you’ve learned and observed through your relationships. Much love. – Renee

@Sue – My deepest condolences on the loss of your beloved husband, and my heartfelt wishes for love and healing are with you and your family in this first holiday season without him. Blessings. – Renee

So many reasons to say Thank You this morning. Thank you Glennon for choosing to share your life with us on an almost daily basis…..Courage beyond courage in my book. And Caroline, I love how you tell your story of forever friendships…the stories that shape us and guide us on all the roads in life.
Tomorrow I fly off to San Antonio, Tx. I will spend 5 days in training with Bren’e Brown and her Daring Way group. When I read your words…”Going Alone”, the crying button in my soul got pushed. Thank you for reminding me I don’t have to go alone ever…ever. Wholeheartedly, Diane

Thank you, Amanda! I have been so encouraged by G’s writings on grace — the community here at Momastery has helped me to shift from a (learned-in-childhood) mindset of judgment to one of welcome and inclusion. A thought for the day, indeed.

It’s been so wonderful to discover Momastery and learn over and over again that so many different kinds of people share my hope/conviction of universal grace, both despite and because of such brutiful losses.

Rachel, you are so kind — thank you, dear friend. I’m still in shock that this post is really and truly live, but as I sip my coffee I carry with me the gift that your writings bring: that of present-moment awareness, not rushing, just savoring. So, thank YOU.

Thank you for this compelling and poignant post about love and friendship and Holly. My best friend Jane and I were inseperable and were said to be like matches and gunpowder together. we did silly harmless things, like cutting off all her Mum’s miniature roses and selling them in bunches around the neighbourhood! Knocking on doors, etc. She was my courage, the one the boys I liked were in love with.
I think we grew apart and Jane turned to self medicating, then I moved away with my family, halfway across the country and we lost touch, so sad. Ours was a time of innocent joy, abandon, exploration and creativity and I would not trade that time for anything. on another note, your letter to Holly finally helps me write the letter I find so hard, writing to my beloved husband who died so suddenly July 2013 .
He was the extroverted part of us and without him I get lost, I mean really lost. I was hurrying to get home from working part time at our huge outlet mall this weekend( the highway and access road were backed up forever so I chose the road less traveled the back country road home, and in the dark, in reverse, the construction and detour sidelined me to a long road which was not the road home. Finally I turned around with nowhere to turn, and was crying and driving home.
Thanks for sharing. I really loved your post.

Oh, Sue. Reading this makes my heart break for you. I wish I could have been there to give you a hug on that long, dark road this weekend. Unfortunately that is about all I would have had to offer, because I bet I am even worse than you at directions.

I’m praying for you right now, for peace and comfort and strength to carry you through this holiday season. Much love.

Sue, this is one of those times when I think, oh, crap, nothing that I say will be right or enough. But I’m gonna try anyway: hang in there. Your story reminds me of all the times when I was a kid that my mom would get lost driving around the back roads of New England; she’d pull into a random driveway and sing out, “Company!” She could be incredibly difficult, but one of the great gifts that she gave me was to be fearless about getting lost (she also taught me to read a map — kind of a key corollary, at least for those times that there *is* a map).

So — I am sorry that you are dealing with such a huge loss. I hope it helps even a tiny bit that we’re all here listening & rooting for you. Maybe that will light your way a little.

Sue, thank you — my heart just goes out as I read your words. I wish I could sit and have coffee with you in person and hear all about Jane, your husband, your life. It sounds like you have lived some beautiful stories, and that you have tremendous courage. Carry on, warrior. <3

It’s Monday morning at 6:32. My kids insist on waking up before the sun and I am not such a fan. Anywho, I read your post and cried, I laughed, I felt a thankfulness toward you for turning my heartd from annoyed to grateful. Thank you for sharing. You made a difference in me today.

Wow, Leslie … that is amazing! I, too, had an interrupted night’s sleep last night — I too was in a place of annoyance — and now, reading these beautiful comments, I have made the same shift to gratitude. Honored to share the journey with you.

Robin, I too connected with what you said…TOUCH BACK. What an incredibly beautiful way to express your heart! I’m feeling the same way right now. No specific words, just find it necessary for my heart to respond with gratefulness towards hearing all these tragic, yet beautiful stories. Memories of such love and loss. I lost a childhood friend this way. It had been years since I’d seen him…I was so confused. Such great memories of fishing trips with both of our families, Thanksgivings and Easter, we’d always get in trouble for taking off on hikes in the woods too far from home. What could’ve possibly happened to change that sweet friend to convince him that leaving life would be a better way? He was not my lobster, per se, but we were very close. My heart still hurts when I hear his name. Cade~you are very much missed my friend.

This is a sad, but great, tribute to your friend. As hard as being in my 30’s and going through the day to day mundane stuff of raising a family is, I feel sorry for those who never made it this far, and I wish they were still here with us, commiserating about how tough it is but being thankful for being here nonetheless.

I could not read and with my heart all twisted not comment. My words not spilling out as easily as they as I have a teenager and see the angst that comes with the stage first hand. I can say ~thank you for sharing~

Oh my… I don’t know what to say as my eyes fill with tears and my heart bulges with bittersweet pain and love… what do you call that miss glennon, brutiful? But I couldn’t read this and pass by without commenting. So much love. xoxoxo